


what you don't know you need

by wewerebornforthis



Category: Emmerdale
Genre: Affairs, Cunnilingus, F/M, Orgasm Control, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 22:59:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10581252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wewerebornforthis/pseuds/wewerebornforthis
Summary: There came a point where he couldn't wait for Chrissie to get out the door.





	

**Author's Note:**

> the sex between these two must be lit

 

Her favourite place was the kitchen.

Rebecca White scrubbed at the plates until the paint chipped off. People were talking in the next room, three familiar voices all atop of each other, fighting for control of the conversation. Maybe one of them was the telly, she couldn't tell, but she knew two of them for certain: the sharp tone of Chrissie and the low, brassy tone of her fiancé.

They'd had dinner together, as an - ugh - _family_. Robert and Lawrence had argued, as always. Lawrence stormed out pretty quickly and Chrissie had looked at her sister across the table and rolled her eyes. It was always like that. She didn't know what they'd expected. You stick two alpha males in a room together and you're guaranteed a show.

It was getting dark. The sky outside had turned a funny shade of purple.

Someone's weight shifted next door: Chrissie's, it was revealed, when that sharp tone announced she was  _going out_ and she didn't know when she'd be back. The whole house rattled when the front door slammed. The cutlery in the sink clinked together musically and a small, smug smile crossed Rebecca's face. She already knew what was coming.

He appeared at the doorframe. His eyes were wide and focused. "Hey."

Bex smiled, suds all over her hands. "Thought she'd never leave."

"Tell me about it," he said. Something in his voice was - fuck. Even his _voice_ made her want him. "If I hear one more thing about contracts, I'll fucking turn into one."

She wiped a glass and set it aside. "Bless. I warned you not to sign it."

"I should listen to you more often."

"You should," she agreed. 

Her eyes were down, watching the swirl of soap in the water when she heard him move. Then she felt him behind her, lingering ever so slightly. Everything in her body awoke like static. 

"Still," he said; his voice sounded much closer, and it was low and husky and in her ear. "Least it's just us now."

These were the moments she loved. The rare flashes in the day when they're alone in the house, the house with too many rooms and too much furniture but just enough space to make noise. The stretches of time where nothing else in the world exists but the two of them. 

But no, not just yet. She was going to tease him first.

It was extremely fun. Her hands sank beneath the layer of suds and retrieved a plate, stained with ketchup. "I'm busy."

"Lachlan can do the washing up," he protested. His fingers closed in on her back, five points on the small of it. It sent gentle shocks across her skin. "Come on, she won't be gone long."

"She could walk back in any second, you know what she's like," she said. "Looks like you'll just have to wait."

He straightened behind her, breath catching in an accepted challenge. And then she felt it.

 

Bex cursed herself for wearing a skirt that day. At least she was wearing underwear - sometimes she didn't even go that far.

The pleats of fabric cloaked his hand as it slid between her legs. It was so sudden, so warm and gentle, dipping into her panties and into the fold. God, it - it made her feel alive. Her blood immediately ran faster. It found her nipples and her cheeks and her clit, so fast it nearly made her dizzy.

"You've no patience, have you?" she barked, not wanting to give in, but her knuckles were white on the dishcloth. 

He was smirking. 

"Nope," he replied. "Not one bit."

His fingers began to move; rubbing gentle little circles on her clit, pressing harder with each motion. Jesus. So simple and casual yet so able to turn her world upside down.

The warmth spread across her, moving outwards from her core to every inch of her skin. Behind her, Robert smirked. He could see it, too. His lips brushed her ear as he spoke. "What fun would I be if I was patient?"

"I'm doing -" she began, reaching for another plate. Her breath caught. "- the dishes."

"I'm not stopping you," he said. 

He completely and totally was, the bastard, but she wasn't going to say that, was she? No way in hell was she going to let him know she wanted this, wanted every part of him against her body. But then he pulled an absolute dick move: his lips fastened onto a stretch of skin on her neck, the one drag of skin he  _knew_ did things to her, and fucking hell. Strings were breaking. She could have turned around and fucked the awful smirk off his face right there and then.

Robert moved in closer; he was hard, she could feel the bulge in his jeans straining for her.

"But," he continued. "You're telling me you'd rather wash up than make the most of an empty house?"

She didn't trust herself to respond. Instead she carried on cleaning, now scrubbing ketchup from a fork. The metal glinted under the kitchen lights. 

 

His fingers moved again, this time from her clit to her opening, slick with how much she ached for him. He slid a finger inside, filling her, then another. Her body betrayed her at that instant: a moan escaped her lips, this low guttural thing, almost heavy with desire. 

She was on fire, fucking _on fire_. He grew rhythmic, in and out and in and out, his lips leaving gentle bites up and down her neck and his other hand beginning to weave itself into her hair. This was them all over: electric, alive with each other. Rebecca no longer occupied with the dishes but instead clinging to the kitchen counter, white-knuckled and trembling slightly.

"You're a -" Her attempt to insult was cut off by the jerk of him inside of her, curling a little. Ugh. 

His fist tightened in her hair, pulling it. Gentle but firm, weirdly possible with him. "I'm a what?"

"A _twat_ ," she breathed.

"That's not very nice," he countered; he tugged again, harder this time but not enough to be painful. It pulled her head back, however, until it was nestled perfectly on his shoulder - and she was looking up at the smug, aroused face of Robert Sugden. 

She snarled. It turned him on. "I'm not nice."

"Tell me about it," he said. His arm circled her, round to the front, and before she could react it buried itself down into the front of her panties, fingers finding her clit with shameless familiarity. Everything was so in sync, so flawless in its synergy - two fingers on her clit, two fingers moving inside of her, and her shuddering moans growing in urgency as her body heaved.

It was building inside of her. Stacking itself, ready for the climax. It was always amazing with Robert: she didn't know why. Maybe because of him, maybe because of her. Maybe because of the knowledge that the door could go at any second. Or maybe - and this was the most likely - it was the knowledge that Robert was Chrissie's, but deep down, he was really hers. That excited her more than anything.

"Ugh," she breathed. Her legs were shaking; she couldn't stand up straight, now leaning against Robert for support. He was hard, so fucking hard against her arse. He wanted her just as much as she wanted him. "Fuck. Fuck, Robert, _fuck_."

The arrogant prick shrugged and whispered, "Is that all you can say?"

Yes, it was all she could say when there was this much electricity coursing through her veins. "Want you," she managed to get out, going up at the end. "Want you to - _ugh_."

"Want me to what?"

She was so fucking wet, her panties were soaked through, as were his hands. Wet with her, wet with how much she craved him. Her moans were no longer breathy and pathetic but now loud, loud and open. God, she loved an empty house.

"Want me to bend you over this counter?" he said. Jesus Christ. Every atom in her body hummed with want. "Cause I will."

They'd done that before. Bex doubled over the kitchen counter, Robert's tongue all over her neck and her shoulders and moving inside of her, setting her alight from the inside.

 

"Robert," she pleaded. She sounded pathetic, really - that facade she'd planned on building was well and truly fucked by now. She was his, all his, soft and malleable in his hands.

He knew it, too. He knew her so well. "What is it, Bex?"

She was -  _god,_ she was close. She was so close. Her breathing quickened and her voice shifted pitch and she just needed him to hit that spot and she'd spill, she'd fall over the edge and it would be fucking heavenly.

Her pelvis shifted, redirecting his aim.

But then it was gone.

His hands withdrew, glistening wet, leaving her dripping and aching and tightening in protest. A weird, strangled voice left her throat. " _Rob_."

"Like you said," he replied, kissing the top of her head. "Chrissie could be back any minute. Don't want her to see us like this, do we?"

There were suds everywhere, all over the countertop and the sleeves of her blouse. Her skirt was hitched up at the back and there was a dark spot on her panties, which were virtually see-through by now with wetness. She felt so empty and hollow without him there: like she'd lost a piece of herself.

He winked at her, the little shit. "Go on, then," he said before he left. "Thought you were doing the dishes."

 


End file.
